Sword tips touching; the dance began. With whirl of motion and clang of blade on blade they dueled. Drawing in closer blades locked; smelling the acrid scent of sweat on the other before pushing away rhythmically. The movement uniform, in unison. Each staring the other intently in the eye; no mercy to be extended, none to be received.
Thrust, parry, deflect. Breath coming heavily through exertion, victory drawing closer with fatigue. Ragged swipes and wretched swings. The end almost upon them. Only one would remain standing, the glorious victor.
“William! Frankie! It’s dinner time! Time to come in now, lads.”
From the Compendium of One Hundred Word Stories
The Angry Farmer 